


The Babe With the Power

by Ceraphena



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra Pentaghast's Disgusted Noises, Cullen Has Issues, Family Feels, Poor Dorian, Solas Angst, Solas Being Solas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceraphena/pseuds/Ceraphena
Summary: The Herald of Andraste: a blessed hero to save us all.What if the one who was supposed to become that hero missed his chance? His little sister got it instead, all because she saw a ball and went to grab it. Find out how the Inquisition deals with a child Herald, and how they overcome the obstacles that follow. Watch as the inner circle lets down their guard, and grows from having to help care for the child that guides them.Plus, who doesn't love family moments with a bunch of misfits?





	The Babe With the Power

Gaatlok: Qunari explosive powder. Its creation is a coveted secret, but being non-lyrium based it is the safest tool for war. A pinch can bust a lock while a stockpile will bring down a city or collapse choke points on unsuspecting enemies. For years dwarves have tried to crack the code, and failed. Enough of the black powder can raze an empire, and nothing surpassed it…

Until the day the Conclave fell.

The world held its breath, and let it go in an eruption of rock and ruin. Smoke billowed out across the snow in an ashen carpet, bringing searing heat that scorched the land clean of white powder. The temple plummeted in the electric plume, the air itself an inferno of destruction as it cracked and groaned. Jagged obsidian pillars gouged through the holy site, swallowing it whole as they took over the horizon with their pulsing green glow.

As the explosion pushed outward, rushing toward Haven and its populace, a vacuum was left behind. Sound returned with a crackling crunch as emerald lightning pooled into the crater, dancing in erratic circles as the world fought with itself. Gravity began to shift as loose boulders started to spin, and hover on their own accord. The air warped and seemed to unfurl, before it snapped under the strain like a ship catching the wind.

The Veil shattered, and the Fade flooded the void.

Far below, the people shakily got back to their feet. They stared at the sundered sky. Some thought nothing, going into shock, as others fell into despair. Terrified wails and cries answered the sky’s rumbling growls, before they were silenced by authority. Of course even they were afraid. What was this, an act of the Maker? Did He return, or was this something else? Both were less than ideal, but one thing was certain: they must look for survivors.

Surely _someone_ made it.

Surely, _someone_ saved the Divine.

But there’s no time to look. It’s chaos, the nightmare come to life only becoming worse as smaller tears within the Veil appear. Demons fall out of them, newborn and weak willed. Eager to fight, to try and understand the stale world with sensations they _can_ comprehend: taste and touch with their teeth and claws. Swords sing and shields bash as the people fight, defeat the first wave, and triumph. Two seconds of glory, and then silence as more demons slither through the tear to take the place of their fallen brethren.

Realization dawns on them: _they won’t stop coming._

So they do what they can instead.

With the Commander taking the lead (holding the front no matter how much his strength flags, how his joints ache and his head pounds with pain), soldiers fought in rotating shifts at the smaller rifts to allow supply and refugee movement. For every two common footmen, there was at least one Templar to help suppress the rifts; acting like corks in a wine bottle, buying everyone time for a quick field dressing or a simple breather. Mages, however, were pulled from the front lines except for the strongest veterans. The initial wave that assaulted Haven… did _not_ go well, for those who simply gave in to the fear. Abominations and demons? A messy combination, one that they did not need.

Not now.

Not _ever._

Memories of Kinloch Hold reared up as the Commander plunged his sword through an Abomination's chest, a wordless roar pouring from his mouth as he called for reinforcements. They came in a trickle, replacing the exhausted with even more tired people; adjusting the straps of their armor and shield before they plunged into the fight. Hope waned as they pushed ever forward, watching as one by one they began to fall. Sisters took the worst cases, and whispered the last rites over deaf ears as the fallen succumbed to death’s sweet embrace. Nameless faces laid in neat rows under white sheets while they made pyres for the dead. Sad eyes swathed in red and white, adorned with the sunburst idols upon their brow as they moved mechanically. Numbed, but what else was there to do?

The answer arrived where the madness all began as a young man, holding something tight to his chest, stumbled out of a rift in what was once the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A glowing figure stood behind them, its hand outstretched (a wisp of a cry echoing around his shoulders) before the tear winked out of existence. Gone, like the strength in his legs as he blearily looked around. The world greeted him in a swath of swirling vivid greens, making him wince as a lance of pain flared behind his eyes. He screwed them shut with a groan as he lurched forward, dropping to his knees against the hard ground.

The world took a violent turn as the young man fell to his side, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to as his head smacked against the rancid stones.

Blurry figures appeared in his line of sight before he faded out, falling unconscious where he lay. His body relaxed, his arms loosening their hold to reveal his precious cargo was a five-year-old little girl. She was tall for her age, all legs and chubby cheeks with soot stained skin. There was a nasty cut on her brow, sticky with blood and only looking worse as it mixed with the grime. Her clothes were spattered with suspicious dark stains, but that wasn’t what drew their attention.

Their eyes were transfixed on the spitting, fluctuating mark on the little girl’s palm. The scouts glanced at one another, and gathered the fallen. The Hands would want to deal with them.

Whether to choke or hold them, they couldn't know, but it wasn't their business.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my fic! This is not my first, but this is the first I've done in a long while so please be patient! I will do my best to update regularly, as I have a lot of ideas for this (inspired mostly by my own child that makes a lot of comments when I play Inquisition)! Expect a lot of feels later on in the story, and featuring a lot of Solas and Cullen stuff (considering Solas majorly messed up by having the Anchor show up on a *baby* of all things).


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